


Swinging From the Side

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Amazing Spider-Man (2012), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crossover, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Loki comes looking for revenge, he doesn't go straight for the big guns. He follows the smaller targets, like the little suburban bumpkin that the Avengers have adopted into their fold. </p>
<p>For the Spider-Man Kink Meme on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swinging From the Side

**Author's Note:**

> This is the other thing I wrote for the Spider-Man Kink Meme. Prompt is [here,](http://spiderkink.livejournal.com/1612.html?thread=187980#t187980), and there's another fill under it that never got finished which saddens me deeply. :( Again, I wrote and posted it a while ago but I figured it could have a second life on AO3.

The instant he entered his house, he knew. There was the buzzing at the back of his head, the hairs of his neck gone all prickly, a stillness to the air and a blanket of silence that was impossible without soundproofing the Parkers could never afford. The biggest worry now was that the family car was parked out front. 

Peter shed the backpack and whisked out his webshooters. Aunt May didn’t know, not yet, preferably not ever, but he was not taking chances. Something had gone very wrong in his house. He almost called out for her but thought better of it. He opened the door quietly enough when he came in, he could still have some element of surprise. Softly but swiftly he surged forward. The stairs weren’t worth the risk, so he took to the wall to avoid springing any creaks and groans from old battered wood. He scuttled upward, praying under his breath.

The door to his Aunt May’s bedroom was slightly ajar. Enough that he could see her feet on the bed, one over the other as if lying curled on her side. He traversed to the roof and gently, with great hesitance, he pushed the door open with two fingers. 

She was asleep. Coiled in the fetal position and still in her work clothes, hands clapped together under her cheek. Peter watched her for a moment, the steady dread still not dissipating until he realized what was wrong: she wasn’t moving. Not a hair.

His spider senses pulsed. He dropped down to rush to her side and still couldn’t see anything amiss in the room, reaching for her shoulder to shake her awake. “Aunt –“ He stopped with horror. What should have been soft cotton and skin was as hard as stone. “Aunt May?!” He tried to jostle her. Touch her cheek, make a wrinkle in her shirt. It was the same woman, real as day with pores in her skin and wispy hair spilled over the pillow, but she was as still as a statue and just as unyielding. He couldn’t move her.

“How like them, to take in a stray.”

The voice came from behind. Peter whirled around and found a man he had never seen before standing perfectly centre in the door frame. He was tall, regally dressed for an age long past in green robes and golden metal, with a pale face formed by high, proud bones. His eyes were blue and they sliced through him even though the stare was lazy, as if Peter were nothing more than a speck of dirt. His hair was long, slick and black, and Peter’s immediate impression was of snakes spilling from the crown of his head. 

“Who are you?” Hot fury rose in his cheeks and curled his fists. “Undo it. Whatever you did to her, you turn it off right now.”

“Of course, one must wonder whether there are any standards to be had at all. You’re hardly a Stark, certainly not a Banner or a Romanoff. You wouldn’t even be qualified to sweep the ship.”

Peter’s fists clenched further, the nails boring into his skin. It was unbelievable. “You’re talking about the Avengers?”

“Clearly.”

“Then go take this to them. What are you doing here? Do you even know me? What have I ever done to you?” Livid, he pointed to his Aunt, frozen on her duvet. “What has _she?_ ”

“Not a thing. Don’t throw a fit, I was merely extending her a courtesy. She’ll be free the moment I am gone.” Suddenly he was not at the door, but at Peter’s side and patting Aunt May on her head. He froze to the spot, stunned. “I thought it best to spare her all of this nasty business, poor little thing. Worked to the bone since your Uncle passed.”

The shock broke. A mangled yell of indignation ripped through him and Peter slung his fist at the man, only to find himself slamming into the floor on his back. The man had barely moved. Caught him by the fist and just twisted. “What a temper.”

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!” Peter flung himself upright and the man had disappeared again, only until Peter caught sight of the standing mirror and saw him standing inches behind, eyes boring into his reflection just as sharply as they did in person. He was flipped around and sent careening into the glass, little shards of it threaded close enough through his clothes to scrape but not impale. Lucky him. The man pinned him there with a hand at his throat and slid him upwards. The shattered glass tinkled and clinked as it fell out from where Peter’s body had suspended it, and this time he did get a long shallow cut from a stubborn piece that insisted on staying put while his shoulder grazed over top of it.

“I am your King,” growled the man through a bitter smile. “I am humanity’s hope. I am a god, and you are the soil beneath my shoe, you insipid little maggot.”

Peter’s lip curled. Even afraid as he was when the connection hit (this had something to do with Thor; it had absolutely everything to do with Thor when ‘gods’ and magic were involved), he couldn’t stop himself from squeezing out a retort, “We don’t have kings here. Get out of my house.”

His response was the back of the man’s hand swatting him across the face. It felt more like a baseball bat than flesh and blood. “If you dare speak so disrespectfully to me again, I will kill her.” The threat sat cold between them. Peter tried to stop his gasping. “I shouldn’t like to orphan you for the, what is it now? Second time? Should I count one for each parent? Mother is one, Father is two, and old Benjamin makes three?”

Then as simple as that, Peter was more furious than afraid. This time when he punched the man the hit landed. The grip on his neck loosened and he tore himself free, smug as he nailed a kick to the man’s side. So much for gods.

And so much for his freedom, because by the time he tried for a third wallop the man had overcome his little shock and slammed Peter’s stomach with his arm. Peter went down winded, curled up in pain. He was given no reprieve. The man stood tall, grasped him by a thick lock of hair, and proceeded to drag him out of the room. 

Peter screamed. He kicked, he stuck his hands to the carpet and his feet to passing wallpaper and took pieces of each with him. It was no use. They traveled into his bedroom and Peter felt some of the hair begin to tear out as the man yanked him upward, onto the unmade bed.

“Swine,” hissed the man. “You aren’t worth the food you eat, the air you breathe.” Peter swiped at him but he caught the arm and hit him in the eye, making him yelp. Blood trickled from his brow into the cleft of his eyelid. “Even the hovel you live in would be better suited to firewood than to house a blight like you.”

“ _THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE?_ ” Peter kicked, even if it was fruitless and it was his ribs that paid the price this time. He seethed bitterly before continuing. “What is your _deal?_ What do you want?!”

The man put his hand on Peter’s throat again, and he thrashed for his life. The man had come to murder him. It was that simple. It was just a twisted effort to upset the people at SHIELD, the Avengers, even Thor, who he knew the least of the bunch. They liked him, they helped him now and then, but none of that was on par with actually being a member. It was not to the point that he would have ever expected one of their lunatics coming after him. The man settled over top, pinning him with weight and force alike and it suddenly struck Peter exactly how cold he was to the touch. And in spite of the hold on his neck he wasn’t being strangled. He just couldn’t hear himself yelling anymore.

The hand drew away, and Peter’s lips worked uselessly to shape the sound from his throat. But there was none. Only air, little gasps and pants. “Much better.” The man smiled as Peter’s breath began to race in time with his heart and put his hands to each of Peter’s wrists. Terrified now, Peter fought. He thrust his head up to batter it against his assailant’s, and missed; he wrestled to get his legs underneath the man where damage could be done instead of around the outside, and failed. He couldn’t wriggle his arms out from the grip, and was losing feeling in his fingers, now his knuckles, down the thin bones to the wrists, and he screamed voicelessly and tried to bite at the nearest bit of skin he could reach. He even tied his legs around the man’s ribs and squeezed, surely hard enough that a regular man’s torso would have popped clean off, but the man had finished by that time and was free to pry apart his knees. Peter’s arms felt like dead flesh, weights strung off his shoulders. He could not move them, not even when the rest of his body shifted and tugged. They were stuck perfectly in place on the mattress. Just like his sleeping Aunt down the hall.

“Now that we’re done with tantrums, I will answer your questions. You, little spider, are utterly inconsequential to me. You are weak and worthless.” Peter felt his legs go limp, starting at the knees where the man held them wide. It was much swifter than what had happened to his arms, but not the same effect at all. He could still feel them and they were moving, but they had gone sluggish, as if he was wading through molasses. He was panting just trying to raise them off the bed. “All I want is a small portion of your time. There is one purpose you can serve, you see.”

That put a pause on Peter’s struggles. Because even as his mind rushed to disembowelment, limbs being torn off, teeth ripped out, and even worse fates, there was a niggling at the back of his mind that dismissed them all. His eyes went from the wicked curve of the man’s smirk to the way he was settled in between his legs. How his arms were bound, his voice cut off. His spider senses were going, but the man was not aiming for any kind of kill. 

No, he was reaching down instead. He snatched Peter by the belt, never once letting his eyes break their mutual stare.  
Things started to make too much sense then. 

Peter yelped (or he intended to) and shook his head fervently no, trying to lurch his body to the side or wrest the man’s grip off. Neither happened. Twice his heart stopped as he saw the man’s index finger slice through the belt like butter, then ever so delicately flick the button off of his jeans.

It was impossible. Even as Spider-Man had become part of his life and he spent his free time getting beat up and kicked around, he did not once think about this. With regards to Gwen, yes, sometimes he got scared for her or what might happen should the wrong people figure out that she knows him, but himself?

He shook his head harder. It wasn’t. No, this was was something else entirely. It couldn’t be happening, this was just some other form of torture. There would be a knife coming shortly, or more magic. Something else. Something normal. His mouth turned desert dry as his jeans were tugged down his hips and he tried to lift his legs again. _MOVE MOVE MOVE_ , he thought as furiously as possible. But they still worked in slow motion, sweat beading at his forehead and he wasn’t sure if it was from effort anymore.

His underwear followed and his heart leaped to his throat. He clenched his eyes shut and tried his damnedest to heave, to shove, to rip his arms free. But cold fingers slipped around him even as his mind shrieked that it wasn’t going to happen, slid up and down even as what little of him could move spasmed in horror. And as the touch went up, then down, up and down, each time Peter’s mind was dragged kicking and screaming a little further away from sanity and a little closer to the present. To the impossible.

To the very possible. 

“Ah, so you are untouched.” He swiveled his thumb deftly over the head of Peter’s cock, as if he had done this a hundred times before. Peter wailed soundlessly. He thrust his face as far to the side as possible and hid in the pillow, shame sick and his head pounding with nauseating strength. His spider senses had become his own worst enemy. The man took the turn as an invitation to lean forward and whisper delicately into his ear, “Then why do they keep you around, I wonder?”

Peter whipped back forward so quickly that the man narrowly missed his nose getting knocked off. By now he was ferociously red in the face. He struggled hard against the spell, so much so he would have woken the dead had his voice still been working, but all he could do was mouth the most emphatic _fuck you_ that had ever been. He tried to butt the man’s forehead again but came half an inch short, and was wrenched back to the pillow by the hair. 

The man seemed not to care about any of this rebellion. He pumped Peter slower, more languidly, and pulled his hair back so that his mouth had no choice but to open and his throat was laid utterly bare. “It’s not as if you are so fetching they would want to savor the moment when it comes. You’re a very cheaply put together boy. And you would be so eager to please them, you would leap for the chance if they asked you, wouldn’t you, pet?”

Now he feared he would actually be sick. Whether it was more magic or just the poison of the words themselves, Peter was now picturing Tony Stark crouching over top of him. Thor. Nick Fury. Doing the same thing, pulling his hair the same way and tugging his cock and all with the same dispassionate, hateful stare. Prickles and sharp pangs at his scalp told him he lost more hair as he wriggled loose, just enough to clench his jaw and lips so the bile wouldn’t get out. His belly gave an unholy lurch.

“So what then? Do you sing for them? A little songbird for the soldiers? Do you play the lyre?” The slick touch was getting to be altogether too wonderful. Peter squirmed and whimpered out little puffs of useless air as pleasure invaded an already too occupied mind, his body shaking with the effort to cope. “Do you dance when they ask? Do you play maid or do you play cook? Do you play their fool? I think that would be your best talent, certainly. Perhaps you may not be aware of it yet.”

He had not cried. Peter was now in an agony unlike anything before in his life and on the verge of orgasm and riotous vomiting at the exact same time, and yet he had not shed one tear. But now they were coming. He could see their faces, he could see each one with the shock and displeasure the minute he had been forced to unmask in front of them. Natasha’s heavy frown, her insistence that he quit on the spot. Tony rolling his eyes and drawling, “Are we running a daycare now?”, pity from Steve, disbelief from Clint. Nothing that had happened since between them seemed real anymore.

A hiss of laughter told him that he was too late. The man had spotted him crying. Somehow the tears had leaked everywhere all at once and Peter couldn’t ebb the flow if he tried. “Oh, I do believe we’ve hit the mark. You are an expert jester, Peter Parker, you must give yourself some credit. Saving the world in a costume you sewed from scraps and old shoes. Swinging about on your homespun trapeze, protecting your city one bumbling drunkard at a time. All this before you’ve finished school! They must get such a thrill out of you.”

He let go of his cock. Peter wheezed, part of him screaming at the injustice of it and the rest of him terrified beyond reason. He writhed, wishing it could just end. Just let the man touch him for a moment more, let him spill out the worst orgasm of his life, and leave him to drown in humiliation like he so clearly wanted. But instead, the man hooked his fingers around the hem of his pants again. With supernatural ease, they were ripped clean off and Peter was left bare from the waist down.

“Such a _thrill,_ indeed, but let’s see what we can do to polish you up for better stations.” 

That hand went to worse deeds. Peter, who by now was all sweat and tears and aching cock, thrashed his hardest as the man slipped a cool and suspiciously wet finger down low. It traced the rim and Peter knew then he still had worse to come, so he fought and he fought and he fought –

And quite suddenly, his legs sprung to action. Even with the spell restraining him somehow the push of fear and hatred and pure animal fight won out. The man went sailing into the wall from a battering ram of a kick, leaving Peter gasping at his luck. The man slumped the floor in a sit, blinking wide and dumbly like a dog whose snout had been swatted. Peter was frozen just watching him. 

Until he realized he was still very much pinned to the bed and only his legs had been liberated. He was suddenly a flurry of limbs on the sheets. With a great heave he finally managed to swing his feet onto the wall and stick them there, curving his body into a C until he began to stretch, stretch up and the mattress was seemingly magicked to the bed frame and the bed frame to the floor, but if he could just pull hard enough the spell might snap on his arms too.

It was all too good to last. With a cruel and echoing _thwack_ Peter’s side exploded in pain and his feet lost their grip on the wall. His body slammed back into the bed. The man was panting lividly as he seized him by the wrists and twisted them, flipped them over and pinned them again so that Peter was screaming silently with a mouthful of cotton and his ass exposed to the air, legs dangling off the edge. 

“YOU INSOLENT WRETCH!” The man cracked his fist into the back of his head and Peter nearly wiped out, his vision swimming and bile returning with a vengeance. His erection withered as the rest of him throbbed in pain. “I’ll fuck you like the miserable dog you are, and then I’ll kill your imbecile Aunt! _And_ your little blond harlot!” Peter began to holler and plead, body quaking as he sobbed wildly and tried to turn back to mouth his promises to the ruthless brute behind him, only to take a second hit to his ear. He crumpled completely against the bed and the balls of his feet skittered weakly along the floor. The left collided with an open text book and protractor he had left sprawled out to finish later, which now stabbed at his toes. The man’s voice was more snakelike than ever, so much so that Peter half expected real venom to spray at his back. “Don’t _snivel_ at me now, whelp. Don’t believe for a moment your tears will inspire mercy. You will learn what it means to obey the gods, no matter how long it takes for the lesson to penetrate your thick ape skull…”

Peter didn’t let himself open his eyes anymore. He didn’t want to see. He could barely hear, one ear ringing loudly from the hit and his skull still buzzing, his ribs on fire and his whole head pulsating with hurt. He could not care anymore. He could not care as he felt the swish of fabric moving behind him and knowing the man had disrobed, as lean dagger-like fingers grasped him by the hips and he felt something wet push in (and he had stopped marveling, stopped questioning because of course it was some kind of magical bullshit lubricant that appeared on demand, because he was getting brutalized by a god and no amount of logic in the universe could apply anymore). It was thick and hot, so unlike the icy hands holding him in place, and it slid in one agonizing bit at a time, closer and closer until he could feel the man’s slick hair tickle his shoulders where he had bent over him and the heat from the groin just a fraction away from colliding with his rear, and he felt the bed dip to his right where he moved up a hand to steady himself.

Peter just laid very still and let himself be swallowed whole. 

The man did not take him gently. The first thrust was small, but still hard. Like a slap. The second went further, pulled back further for a worse return. Peter flinched and curled his toes. The third and fourth and fifth accelerated, and on the sixth the man rose and put a hand on his spine as he jabbed forward. Everything that followed seemed to hit deeper, a little faster, and Peter remained subdued under the simple grip at his hip. His cartankerous old bedsprings squeaked with every move. And now that the image had been invoked it was impossible not to feel like a dog, bent over on his own bed and being fucked by a man. By a god.

It hurt. A different hurt than the rest of him and some small fraction of Peter was grateful, because the rest was blinding aches and bruises and his spider sense still raising hell, so even this was a distraction. The humiliation had dissipated. His dignity had fled him when the man had jerked him off. Peter just wanted it to be over.

Yet with another roll of his stomach, he realized that the sensation was starting to get hazy again. What was just plain pain now bled together with a little sweetness, a strange little quirk that had his cock twitching, that pulsed just a bit stronger every time the man pushed inexorably into him. Another push had his body cringing in delight. Peter could have died. Peter wanted to die. But he didn’t even have it in him to cry anymore, so the new tears just rolled inertly down tracks left by the old and he bit down on the pillow. He might not have been able to moan, but the indignity of even a muted one was unbearable.

The man leaned down again, this time draping his body flush against Peter’s and he slowed it all down. He pushed in deeper but took his time about it, moving in and out with a tenderness that sent Peter’s skin crawling. The man’s hands wandered from his bottom for the first time since they had started. They were greedy wherever they roamed, squeezing and tickling and stroking, especially wherever they found scars. Peter had a lot of those nowadays, life as Spider-Man leaving its brands all over him. Of course one inevitably found its way back to his hair and tangled in nice and taut. He was coerced into facing his captor as best as he could. Blearily, Peter let his eyes peel open before the man could hit him for not looking. Frigid blue met him clear and hatefully. Peter expected something to happen. He was being rolled against so lasciviously from behind and so painfully yanked at from the head that he was bracing for a kiss and a strike in equal measure. But the man did niether. He simply watched. He studied Peter’s twitches and grimaces, and even the way the groans wrestled out of him with little more than a parting of his lips and the exhalation of blank air. 

Eventually he did let his head go, only to grasp his arms instead. Though they were still numb from tip to shoulder they now lifted off the bedding. The man withdrew. Peter didn’t so much as fidget as he was hoisted upright like a ragdoll and made to settle on the man’s lap. He slumped against his chest, head lolling on his shoulder. The cock was guided back inside him and Peter was being pistoned again at the hips, this time up and down and with smaller distance. The rest of him remained draped against the pale chest as deadweight. Blackness closed in once or twice. Most of the time Peter just stared blearily at his bulletin board on the wall opposite. Everything was rendered to simply “hurt” and “fucking”. There was no denying the rise in his cock now.

Finally, some urgency took hold. The man was starting to gasp and go red in the cheeks. He pushed Peter’s body down as far as it could manage before raising it up again. It burned by now to move anything down there, but it was not enough to squash that squirming, quaking thing inside. So different from any touch to his cock and yet exactly the same effects. Peter couldn’t help himself, he buried his face in the man’s neck so he wouldn’t have to burn to death with the heat there, the cool skin (even now, he was so cold) better than a wet cloth to the forehead. Hot and wet, the man came while still inside him. The sensation was bizarre. Revolting to the limit.

Even then they weren’t done. Peter was snatched by the back of his neck and forced to face the man yet again. Though a little redder, the man’s hard expression had changed very little. “If you are kind and give me a kiss, I’ll forget about your Aunt. And the whore. Hm?” Peter blinked slowly. The words registered at about half speed. “Jane was sweet enough to comply. And she never kicked me either, no, she was much better behaved than you. It is the very least you can do.”

Violent trembles wracked his body. He was hard again and yet so deadly tired, and he had no clue who Jane was supposed to be, but he did his best. Peter let himself lean forward and pressed his lips to the man’s, and was not at all surprised when he felt a tongue thrown in the mix. So he returned the favour, opening wider and letting the man slide in and explore him and feeling a little grateful that he had never actually gotten sick, because that would have made it all the worse.

When it was done he was unceremoniously thrust onto his bed, prone on his back. A hand was laid to each of his arms, and they were free but dead just the same. They had gone numb the natural way while they were bound up under magic.

“I think,” spoke the man contemplatively, and when Peter blinked he was suddenly fully dressed in impeccable green and gold once again, “that even if you were lovely and obedient at the end, that your upset at the start has still gone unpunished.” Here he smiled, chilly as ever, and Peter’s heart sunk as he suddenly began to dread for Aunt May and Gwen all over again. “I am keeping your voice. If you want it back, the spell is a simple one. But you’ll have to visit my brother to get it done.” His eyes began to glitter with wicked delight. “He does not have the power to cast himself, but if he’s willing to spare the time he can find some tinkerer in Asgard to do it for him. I do hope the two of you are on very close terms. He is quite busy, that Thor Odinson.”

Peter’s face contorted. Fury rumbled to life again though his body was long past the ability to act on it. He would have to go to the Avengers. This was a psychotic brother-god to Thor, and he was going to have to drag himself up to the Tower and somehow beg for help and everyone would know what happened. They would figure it out. It was such a putrid ploy at revenge, swinging at his targets from the side. Peter didn’t even know this asshole.

With one last horrid grin, the man winked out of existence. 

Almost immediately there was a shriek, and an uncharacteristic thudding of feet on the carpet. Aunt May burst into the room with her hair flying wild, took one look at her nephew, and burst into tears. “P-Peter…” she whimpered, heartbroken. She was at his side in a flash and wrapping him in his blankets, head ducking now and then with the strength of her sobs. “Who was…I don’t understand!! I couldn’t move! I could hear but I couldn’t move, and he was _hurting_ you…”

As she enveloped Peter in her arms and babbled in shock, asking questions Peter could no longer answer, his mind short circuited. He had thought she was asleep but she had heard everything. Every last thing. The man had lied.

When he finally fainted Peter welcomed the black with open arms, and his Aunt rocked him back and forth.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The World for My Voice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166360) by [Ruolumen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruolumen/pseuds/Ruolumen)




End file.
